The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up
by Edhla
Summary: During his first week at Baker Street, John discovers he can borrow any book of Sherlock's he likes... except one. *COMPLETE* Gift!Fic for Jack63Kids, who gave me the inspiration.
1. Chapter 1

It was the better part of a dazed first week at Baker Street before John thought to really explore his surroundings- or rather, Sherlock's surroundings, since just about everything belonged to him. But for all the man's faults, John immediately found out one thing: Sherlock Holmes was not selfish with his belongings.

"Sherlock," he muttered over his shoulder one morning to the lanky detective slouched in the armchair behind him. He'd been poring over the contents of the bookshelf for almost ten minutes before Sherlock, clad in his pyjamas (even though it was almost eleven o'clock in the morning) had wandered in with a cup of tea.

"Mmm?"

This was an improvement on no response at all, which John had already learned he could count on if he interrupted Sherlock's thinking process.

"Could I... do you think I could borrow this?"

He gently tugged out a hardcover book on the Shackleton expedition- hopefully, he reflected, the expedition where everyone made it out alive after an epic sea voyage through the ice in a rowboat... and not the one where everyone died.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. He was wrapped up in a book of his own- the _Nihon Shoki._ John, peering over his shoulder, wondered briefly_: is he reading it in Japanese-? Oh, of course he is._

"You didn't even see what it is I want to borrow," he said. "Unless you have eyes in the back of your head."

Sherlock turned his head, looking up at him over one shoulder with those pale, almost luminous grey eyes. "Okay," he said in beleaguered tones. "What is it?"

John held it up.

"Yes." Sherlock turned back to his book.

But John, like a child given unlimited privileges in a room full of toys, did not know where to start. He tucked the Shackleton book under his arm and continued greedily taking in title after title. John owned few books, and libraries had been a bit beyond him since Afghanistan, but there were times over the past six months when he'd definitely felt he liked books more than people.

"How on earth did you collect all these?" he asked softly, almost to himself.

"Mmm?" Sherlock flipped his book down again.

"There must be thousands of books here. Where did you get them all from? Are you-"

John cut himself off just in time before the burning question tumbled out of his mouth: _Are you rich?_

"I collect them," Sherlock said, a little stiffly. "Some people collect sterling silver spoons, or Edgeware plates, or taxidermied animals-"

"Oh, name _one_ _person_ who collects taxidermied animals," John protested. "Apart from Norman Bates."

"Who?"

John sighed and shook his head. Sherlock gave him a confused glance, clearly wondering why the headshake.

"Anyhow," he said curtly, lifting his chin. "People collect things. And I collect books."

"Okay."

John swept his gaze over the shelf just above eye level, left to right, mentally making plans to borrow books from Sherlock from now until at least Christmas- one at a time, of course. His gaze finally came to rest at the end book. Much thinner and taller than the others.

"What's this?"

Gently pulling it out of where it was snuggled between the _Malleus Maleficarum_ and the end slat of the bookshelf, John saw that 'this' was also an old favourite of his- JM Barries' _Peter Pan; or, The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up._ Though, John reflected, his own copy was probably sitting in the attic back home and in nowhere near the pristine condition of this one. He wiped a light layer of dust off the glossy, emerald-green cover with the heel of his hand, looking at the illustration. _Not_ the way he'd always imagined Captain Hook, but oh, well.

"Peter Pan," he said absently to himself. "Nice."

Sherlock turned again, then leapt up like a shot. "No," he snapped, leaning across the back of the chair and plucking it out of John's hands.

John felt his face start to burn. He'd been making a lot of mistakes with Sherlock Holmes already that week... never knew what was going to cause some little fit of temper or _what._ Add that to the fact that he was pretty certain he'd woken half of London the night before with another dream about a boy with half his face blown off, and he was only surprised Sherlock hadn't turfed him out officially yet.

"I'm sorry," John faltered. "I didn't mean to upset you-"

"Who said I'm _upset?_ Don't be ridiculous, I couldn't be less upset," Sherlock said in an agitated staccato. "Just don't touch that one." He paused. Judging from his expression, he was thinking hard about what he'd just said. "Thank you," he finally tacked on awkwardly.

John took the Shackleton chronicle upstairs to read on his bed, leaving his flatmate slightly ruffled in the living room. He felt humiliated- and worse, he felt like he'd humiliated Sherlock. He hadn't meant to. It was only in the half a second before Sherlock had pulled the open book out of his hands that John had seen the front inscription:

_Dear Sherlock, with lots of love from Mummy x _

_Christmas 1982._


	2. Chapter 2

_All children grow up, except one._

John nudged the glossy green children's edition out of the bookcase behind Sherlock's chair and opened it, reading the first line through a fog of acrid tears and last night's badly-judged doses of Temazepam. Why he'd ever been allowed to administer his own sedatives was a mystery. But then, nobody else in the building had been in a state to do it for him last night, either. Harry had spent the night in Mrs. Hudson's flat and Greg had crashed on the sofa – John glanced across at the cushion and frayed-edged tartan throw-blanket still lying crumpled there. Greg had gone out some time before without saying anything. Maybe to be chewed out by Chief Superintendant Dawson. Maybe to… see Mycroft... about the funeral. The sound of crying and soft voices floated up the main staircase. Harry was down there, probably doing more harm than good.

How could there be a world without Sherlock Holmes in it?

This wasn't grief. Grief John knew well – a bewildering, all-encompassing sense of loss that settled over the world like a fine layer of dust. This was fear. Fear of a world that was in ways so very like the world of yesterday, yet so horribly mangled, like a dislocated neck or an amputated limb. It was fear of what it would be like when he woke up, and fear at realising that he was already awake.

Sherlock's coffee mug on the table, half-full of manky instant-roast, as if he was going to run up the stairs any minute now. Take a sip. Gag. Absent-mindedly remark that he was 'just drinking that two minutes ago.' Be reminded that it was actually two days ago… deny it. Make another cup. Leave it on the counter for another two days while he rushed off to the morgue again.

The big child had been up to these antics just yesterday.

_Yesterday._

John sank down into his armchair, the precious volume open on his lap, and flicked the pages. A musty, comforting smell billowed up; all of Sherlock's books smelled like this, and it sometimes pervaded his shirts, his jackets, his coat, his scarf. It reminded John of the university library where he'd studied for five years, in a time and place where everything came down to facts and science. It was the smell of order and sense and reason and logic.

But there was no order in _this._ No sense, no reason, and no logic for Sherlock Holmes to be dead.

John's eyes flickered over the tale of a boy named Peter who had a girl named Wendy sew his shadow back into place for him, then crowed about having done it himself.

_All children grow up._

_Except one._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had only been in the maternity ward of Queen Charlotte and Chelsea Hospital three times in his life, but that was three times too many. He hated the sympathetic, knowing looks people gave him, which was part of the reason he'd rejected Mrs. Hudson's idea of bringing flowers.

Flowers wouldn't fit under his jacket.

It had rained all the day before, breaking the heatwave with heavy lashes and gusts of wind; by the time Sherlock arrived back at the hospital at half-past ten in the morning, though, it was shaping up to be a bright summer day with cool breezes and blue skies and high puffs of clouds.

"I'm fairly confident that you don't need to make the bed, Molly," he remarked, appearing in the doorway without warning. She jumped.

"Oh, Sherlock, you scared me," she gasped, smiling and putting her hand on her chest. "And yes, I know, but I thought, we're going home and I can't leave the room a mess…" She paused awkwardly, glancing at the made bed as if she was contemplating stripping it again. "Well, it's just habit I suppose."

"I see."

There was an uncomfortable silence of a few seconds. Molly tucked one strand of hair behind her ear. "John's just gone down to the taxi rank," she offered. "Wants to make sure it's kitted out properly, or something."

"I can imagine." John would probably have conveyed his firstborn child home in an airtight bubble, if such a thing were practical.

"He'll be back soon." Molly went to the clear hospital bassinette and lifted Charlie out, snuggling her up against her chest. The newborn was dressed in another outlandish outfit - courtesy of Aunt Harry – some awful frothy thing in a pastel pink hue that literally hurt Sherlock's eyes. She gurgled a little, curling her wrinkled hands into fists against Molly's neck.

Sherlock loudly cleared his throat. "Mrs. Hudson told me yesterday that it's customary to give gifts when someone is born, and so I thought, perhaps I… yes." He reluctantly pulled a glossy green hardcover out from underneath his jacket and passed it over to Molly. Shifting Charlie, she took it delightedly in one hand.

"Oh, Peter Pan!" She smiled, turning it over to read the blurb. "Thank you. It's lovely."

"I… don't really know anything about… girls," Sherlock said with effort, glancing toward the window. "Do they... read about pirates…?"

"This one will." Molly tucked the book under her arm and laid her fingertips on the soft fair down on Charlie's head. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry."

Molly frowned, looking up at him and trying in vain to read his expression. "Sorry…?"

"I'm afraid I… caused you a great deal of difficulty three years ago. And then again last Christmas, I… you said…" he stopped, then took a breath into his hand and straightened his jacket. "No matter. I would appreciate it if you didn't bring my gift to John's attention."

Molly looked at him in silence for a few seconds, punctuated only by Charlie gurgling to herself. "Okay," she said slowly. "Are you coming back to the house with us? We'll get something together and have lunch, perhaps – "

"No, no time." Sherlock pretended to read his watch. "I have some notes to prepare for the Jestyn trial. I'll see you later."

"Sherlock-"

"I'll see you later."

Sherlock was gone well before John, none the wiser, returned to take his family home. And it was a hectic few hours later when Molly, finally having a chance to open Baby's First Book, found a new bookplate that seemed to have been glued over an older one.

_Ex Libris Charlotte Mary Watson_

_Presented on the occasion of her birth, July 20__th__, 20_. _

_Sherlock Holmes _

* * *

**_A/N-_** _This one-shot takes place toward the end of the multichapter fic The Somerton Man, three years after Sherlock's 'death' and seven months or so after the return in 'Come Forth, Lazarus.' For details on how and why on earth John and Molly got together, see: After the Fall._


End file.
